The Window-Gazer eBook

“Another thing which I find odd, is the attitude
of Benis himself. He is quite alive, painfully
so, to the drift of the thing. Yet he does nothing.
And this is not in keeping with his character.
He is the type of man who, in spite of an unassertive
manner, holds what he has with no uncertain grasp.
Why, then, does he let this one thing go? The
logical deduction is that he knows that he never had
it. All of which, being interpreted, means that
things may happen here through the sheer inertia of
other things. Almost every day I think, ‘Something
ought to be done.’ But I know I shall never
do it. I am not the novelist’s villainess
who arranges a compromising situation and produces
the surprised husband from behind a door. Neither
am I a peacemaker or an altruist. I am not selfish
enough in one way nor un-selfish enough in another.
(Probably that is why life has lost interest in my
special case.) Even my emotions are hopelessly mixed.
There are times when I find myself viciously hoping
that Madam Composure will go the limit and that right
quickly. And there are other times when I feel
I should like to choke her into a proper realization
of what she is risking. Not for her sake—­I’m
far too feminine for that—­but because I
hate to see her play with this man (whom I like myself)
and get away with it.”

It is worth while remembering the closing sentences
of this letter. They explain, or partially explain,
a certain future action on the part of the writer,
which might otherwise seem out of keeping with her
well denned attitude of “Mary first.”

CHAPTER XXXIII

“There is one thing which I simply do not understand.”
Miss Davis dug the point of a destructive parasol
into the well-kept gravel of the drive and allowed
a glance of deep seriousness to drift from under the
shadow of her hat. Unfortunately, her companion
was not attending.

It was the day of Mrs. Burton Jones’ garden
party, the Bainbridge event for which Miss Davis was,
presumably, staying over. Mary, in a new frock
of sheerest grey and most diaphanous white, and a hat
which lay like a breath of mist against the gold of
her hair, had come down early. In the course
of an observant career, she had learned that, in one
respect at least, men are like worms. They are
inclined to be early. Mary had often profited
by this bit of wisdom, and was glad that so few other
women seemed to realize its importance. One can
do much with ten or fifteen uninterrupted minutes.

But today Mary had not done much. She had found
Benis, as she expected, on the front steps. They
had talked for quite ten minutes without an interruption—­but
also without any reason to deplore one.

This was failure. And Mary, whose love of the
chase grew as the quarry proved shy, was beginning
to be seriously annoyed with Benis. He might
at least play up! Even now he was not looking
at her, and he did not ask her what it was that she
simply did not understand. Mary decided that
he deserved something—­a pin-prick at least.